


Adagio Sostenuto (The first Movement)

by 91daesmods, fairyminseok



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/91daesmods/pseuds/91daesmods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyminseok/pseuds/fairyminseok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not as if Yixing doesn't have a home. He has plenty; the one he pretends is his home, the one he makes for himself in his school's practice rooms, and the one that presents itself to him from the falling leaves of innocent trees. It's just that this voice sounds more like home than anything he's ever encountered before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adagio Sostenuto (The first Movement)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the usual people, but especially A ~

 

At the age of twelve, Yixing's mother had told him that dancing was no longer his passion, and that he was to focus on piano, to focus on the keys and his scales and the beautiful music of the fine arts. He was told that dancing would get him nowhere in life, and that, as the son of two fine musicians, he would be raised accordingly.  
  
Yixing was told to be like more like Kyungsoo, the young violin prodigy, a diligent and emotionless young man with impeccable manners and no imagination. Kyungsoo was the perfect son in every way. Good at his studies, amazing at the violin, and with no danger of ever rebelling.  
  
Being the only son of famous musicians does not mean luxury. It means rules: lines that cannot be crossed, interests that can not be explored and talents that can not blossom. It means attending the most prestigious arts school in the country and not being able to express what needs to be expressed.  
  
It means days, weeks and months, trapped in a small practice room, tucked away in the quiet part of the school where no one else practices, becoming perfect, becoming a robot, slave to the very piano keys that once felt like home.  
  
That's the thing about Yixing and the piano. He loves piano. He loves getting lost in haunting melodies, finding himself in the classical pieces of old, and in the sadder, more modern pieces. Yixing loves learning, and he loves creating. But he's forced to play now, forced to give up his biggest passions in life to play something that was once a minor passion.  
  
And it hurts. Bleeding fingers and tear stained cheeks, overturned benches and knees drawn up to his chest as he cries alone in the tiny practice room, as he lets his voice echo in the theatre chamber after hours.  
  
Of course his parents love that he stays after hours. Their darling son, their darling baby boy, throwing himself into the life they've created for him. Yixing, the picture of perfection, fingers flying across the keys of the grand piano, at church, at recitals, in their living room.  
  
They don't see their son as a parent should see a son. They see a machine, manufactured to be shiny and perfect. They give him only the best. The best clothes, the best gadgets, the best lessons. They don't know that he's hopelessly depressed, hopelessly alone. No one sees or hears the real Yixing.  
  
Yixing has very few friends at his school. His family has a high status, and his piano skills are known. He's an object of jealousy, of contempt and of wrongful rumours and inaccurate portrayals of who he really is. Yixing is snobby to them, too rich to care about the other students, arrogant and self obsessed with his own talent.  
  
Yixing hates his own talent, hates the way his fingers can dance to a melody he can barely hear with his ears, creating the most beautiful songs without use of sheet music or training. Yixing hates his crisp button up shirts, hates the expensive and stuffy family dinners with staff standing close by his side to make sure he eats. Force it down his throat if need be.  
  
And Yixing, he used to love a lot of things. Used to love all the little things in the world when he was too naive to understand them, when reality hadn't made him the impassive honour student he now is; that beautifully talented boy with his own key to his favourite quiet room.  
  
There are things he still enjoys. Those moments after rain, when the skies are cloudy and the air is saturated, humid and heavy but fresh, clean; the air tinted green while the leaves glisten. Taking the longer route home and sneaking a peek at the dance class in the park, wistful gaze in his eyes and a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  
  
Composing his own melodies on his keyboard, notebook in his lap and mind whirring with forbidden lyrics and haunting notes, a luxury of his own instrument that he is rarely ever allowed, but indulges in the few fleeting hours he has alone with himself and his emotions.  
  
And he enjoys the voice.  
  
The one he hears coming from the adjacent practice room on Saturdays. It's a haunting kind of voice, one with potential but needs more work. It lacks emotion and yet the hint of it that's there has Yixing pausing at his keys to stare at the white walls in wonder, to touch his fingers to the plaster and dream about who the voice could belong to.  
  
It takes him a while to figure out what the voice sounds like, takes him a while to match his keys to it, to harmonize. And it'rs reckless because Yixing knows the walls here aren't soundproof; it's his room after all, his space, his home.  
  
But this voice, it sounds like another kind of home, and even when it scratches, when the boy who owns it strains a note. Even when it cracks it makes Yixing want to cry, makes him want to run to the room and pound on the door, to meet whoever it is.  
  
Yixing doesn't do that.  
  
He tunes it out, continues playing. He leaves the studio quietly and without noise, even switches rooms when the voice becomes too much, starts to echo in his ears like tribal drums, calling him.  
  
Fate has its ways, twists itself into the hearts of even those that try to avoid it, and they meet, clumsy and awkward in the darkened hallways of the school, the after hours that they both seem to share, that they both seem to find home in.  
  
And this boy, Yixing recognizes the voice right away as it tumbles from his lips, soft-spoken and nervous, but sure. He startles Yixing, grabs his hands in his own and looks at him so intently, eyes wide with the light from outside lamps.  
  
"Are you the one?" He asks, sounding breathless, and Yixing blinks, looking down at his hands as though they'd been scalded.  
  
He's not allowed to make physical contact with boys.  
  
"Am I what?" Yixing asks, and he's startled at how soft his voice comes out, how shy and detached. He carefully removes his hands from the other boys and stares at his feet.  
  
"The one that plays piano here at night, the genius," The boy says, and the feeling of home is nearly shattered when Yixing cringes back. He cares for nothing except Yixing's talent, just as everyone else does.  
  
Yet that thought is crushed when Yixing's logic works its way in, when he's reminded that he cares for nothing but this boy's talent also, that they know nothing but the sounds that travel through the rooms they sit in late at night.  
  
Yixing smiles.  
  
"I'm no genius," He says quietly, but he reaches for the boy's hand once again, just to feel the warmth. "But you are."  
  
"I'm not the greatest singer," The boy tells him, and his lips are turned down into a frown that's nearly comical. "And you haven't _seen_ me. I look ugly while I sing."  
  
"You sound like home," Yixing says breathlessly, and he doesn't know why he's saying it. "We should- we should share a room tomorrow."  
  
"You want to practice together?" The boy asks, eyes widening slightly at Yixing's sudden proposal as though he himself isn't impulsive, isn't standing in a dark hallway with his palms on another's. "Are we allowed?"  
  
"I have a key," Yixing says simply, and he shrugs, finds a way to rebel. "We won't get caught. It's always only us down here, and once it was only me."  
  
"Thank you," The boy says, and he's bowing sincerely, confusing Yixing who drops his hands once again.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"I'm Kim Joonmyun," The boy answers, avoiding the question with a smile that crinkles his eyes. He's pretty. "I could really use a friend right now."  
  
"And what about a home?" Yixing finds himself asking, and his heart is pounding in the same way it does when he knows he's doing something wrong, breaking the rules.  
  
_Practice for your recital Yixing. Don't become distracted. Don't touch. Don't speak. Stop._  
  
"A home?" Joonmyun echoes, and it's Yixing's turn not to give him an answer.  
  
"I'm not allowed to touch boys," He says instead, unshaken when Joonmyun nods, agrees, _knows_.  
  
"Me neither," Joonmyun tells him, before lacing his fingers through Yixing's to pull him back towards the practice room.  
  
Yixing hasn't felt anything in a long time, but he thinks that the future suddenly smells just as the trees do after rain.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and comments either here or on [LJ](http://91daes.livejournal.com/3645.html) to support the author!


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